


Breathe me [ENG]

by Koa (TheAbominableWriter)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: English, Episode Related, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, F/M, London has a soul, London has feels for Sherlock Holmes, London!lock, Magical Realism, Pov London, Sentimental, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 08:50:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4740287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAbominableWriter/pseuds/Koa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breathe me, love me, discover me again. Learn me by heart. Explore me in every, little, single and lost corner... Yours London, my Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe me [ENG]

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Breathe me [ITA]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5114519) by [TheAbominableWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAbominableWriter/pseuds/TheAbominableWriter). 



> Thanks to Elisabeth and Rosebud_secret for traslation into english.

_I need to get to know London again, breathe it in,_  
_every quiver of its beating heart._

 

 

 

Breathe me, love me, discover me again. Learn me by heart. Explore me in every, little, single and lost corner. Get beneath my skin. Crawl inside and over me again, like you used to, long ago, when the nights were just mine and yours. When you were still here. Run along the crowded roads, muttering over the idiocy of the people and then settle on a comfortable cab seat, looking at me through the window with your sharp and inquisitive gaze, the one that you show when your mind is lost in your own thoughts. Worship me, like you did years ago. And smile at me, I’m begging you! Do it! I love that smile painted on your face, the one that appears when you look at me on the top of a building, breathing me, loving me. For those are precious moments, instants absolutely and madly ours… I cherish them.

And then go down in the slums, with a vivid and excited gaze of pure emotion, the one printed on the face of who knows that he’s doing something extraordinary. And I’ll be living of you again. Can’t you see? I'm already thrilled. I will love you, the one who loves everything of me, even the smallest grain of sand along the banks of a slow and lazy Thames. I love you, the one who adores the Big Eye above me. I love you, who loves the alleys that spread in Hyde Park, surrounded by a triumph of flowers and by a swirl of petals during the first days of spring. I love you, the one who adores sitting on the benches in front of Buckingham Palace with his John by his side; I like your chats, your talking about everything and nothing at the same time. And I love you, who loves everything of me, even my air, which at five o’clock in the morning it's rain scent mixed with some baker's white flour, who with alacrity kneads some bread, there, in that little place around the corner, not far from George Street.

I missed you, Sherlock. You, far away for two years, at the mercy of other cities, and towns, and countries, of other crowds... people I do not know. Prisoner of roads that don't love you like I do, of cities who don't breathe you, who don't crawl beneath your skin. You’ve been far away, and I thought I’d never see you again, that you’d never come back to me... I was sure I’d never had the pleasure to rejoice over the monologues born from your enormous superego again, and I was scared. You, who know me better than everyone else, and love me more than my own Queen. I missed you. Madly. I would have helped you, that day at the Barts, but I didn't, because you said that you wanted to go away and I was angry and confused. I was afraid of losing you, and when I saw you jump down from that goddamn roof I feared that that was real, and I couldn’t stand to see my skin covered in your blood. But now you’re here again, with me, after too much time, during which I didn't hear the music of your violin filling Baker Street, didn't smell the scent of your favourite tea, or heard the swirling of your coat.

When you were far away I’ve even missed all your dramas, all your over-reacting, and there’s one, simple reason: Sherlock Holmes is like that: you love him or you hate him.

And I do not hate you.

But now you’re back and everything will be alright from now on. Too many murders were committed when you were gone, so many unsolved! All because you weren’t here with me.

My guardian angel, my Sherlock Holmes.

“I missed you” you whisper and your words don’t get lost in the wind, they come to me like a gentle breath full of that grace I know you carry with you and that now is only ours. Me, the one who is everywhere, and yourself, feeling me surrounding and soaking you through, deep into your bones. Me, the one who make you quiver and light up your eyes with a feeling that for us it’s nothing new.

“Back together, me and you” you add, and, if possible, I love you even more.

 

 _Yours London,_  
_My Sherlock._

**_End_ **

**Author's Note:**

> So, you'll notice that, in this fanfic, London has a soul. Well, is a kind of magical realism (more or less) and London think and feels like anyone of us. Then... I considered The city of London like a woman, because in italian any city or town need a feminine article.


End file.
